


He Needs You

by wendymarlowe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, TW: Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-24 02:57:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2565758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sherlock - you need to go home.  Now.”</p><p>“It’s-”  The truth suddenly hit him.  “It’s John, isn’t it?”</p><p>“He needs you,” Mycroft said quietly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Needs You

Sherlock’s phone rang. Not a text. Since the only person who had this particular number was Mycroft, and Mycroft _knew_ Sherlock despised actually talking on the phone, he was sorely tempted to just ignore it. Some hidden instinct had him answering it anyway.

“Sherlock - you need to go home. Now.”

Sherlock frowned. “I thought you wanted me here another week, at the least. And then we still have to tackle the cell in Syria. Moriarty’s man-”

“Forget Moriarty’s man - we’ll see what we can salvage later.” Mycroft’s voice held a note of tension Sherlock had never heard before. Dictatorships could crumble and the world could be on the brink of nuclear war and Mycroft would still keep his careful diction, but something had him worried enough to induce that tiny tremor in his vowels. Sherlock realized he was already pulling on his shoes and scanning the squalid hotel room for anything he couldn’t afford to leave behind.

“It’s-” The truth suddenly hit him. “It’s John, isn’t it?”

“He needs you,” Mycroft said quietly. “My car is already outside - you can be back in London by this evening, if you hurry.”

Sherlock thumbed off his phone without saying goodbye, took one last look around for any lingering evidence that might lead Moriarty’s local Nuremberg goons to conclude that Adam Christofori (visiting artist) was really Sherlock Holmes (consulting detective), and closed the door behind him.

***

Mrs. Hudson was out, but she had never bothered rekeying the locks. Sherlock let himself in the door and quietly crept up the stairs to 221B. He knew intellectually that John had moved out, that Mycroft had convinced Mrs. Hudson to leave the flat vacant except for the smattering of furniture and Sherlock’s belongings John didn’t have space for in his new, smaller place, but Mycroft said John was here and his information was usually frighteningly accurate. There was a tiny sliver of light peeking out from under the door, indicative of a single lamp. Sherlock didn’t bother to knock, just opened the door. And then froze just inside.

“I should have known you’d come back at the end,” John said lazily. He looked up from his seat in Sherlock’s armchair and cocked his head to one side. “I always said you’d cheat death itself to have the last word.” He stroked the service revolver in his lap once, twice, letting his hand mold over the solid metal in a sickening caress. “What advice does my subconscious have for me?”

Sherlock stared some more. He wanted to rush forward, to incite John into some sort of rational response, but something in his face . . . “I’m not dead,” he said quietly.

“Really? That’s the best my brain can come up with?” John sighed. “Fine. Maybe I’m just supposed to talk _at_ you, as if you were actually here. Heaven knows I’ve been doing it at your grave for months.” He frowned. “How about this: I’m pretty sure I loved you, you bloody bastard, and I can’t stand to wait any longer. Short and to the point. You’d have liked that.” He glanced down at the revolver with a tiny smile on his face, studying it. Then lifted it and put the barrel in his mouth.

Sherlock’s heart stopped. He had to move, to interfere, but all the extra adrenaline coursing through his body had his feet glued to the floor.

“No.” It came out as a whisper.

John raised a resigned eyebrow, breathed in and out, closed his eyes -

All at once, Sherlock’s feet were his again. He hurtled across the too-wide expanse of the bare floorboards, almost tripping in his eagerness to get to John. He only barely slowed himself down enough to not crash into the chair, and that was only because he wanted to avoid an accidental discharge.

“John.” Still barely more than a whisper, but John’s lids lifted and his brows drew together in confusion.

“I love you too. Please.” Sherlock laid a trembling hand over John’s, willing him to remove his finger from the trigger. “I don’t - I can’t -”

John’s breathing stopped altogether and he lowered the barrel of the gun slowly from his mouth. “I felt that,” he said. And swallowed awkwardly. “I - I can feel your hand.”

“I’m here.”

“You’re-” John blinked once, twice, finally dragged in a breath. And whispered, _“Sherlock?”_


End file.
